A Hispanic man rocked in the corner with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his hand. A skeletal elderly lady sat in another corner retching into a pan. Even worse, a young mother paced through the emergency room bouncing a curly-headed toddler. His screams curdled my blood. But Mrs. McElroy sat in silence, stoically cradling her arm. She’d answered my questions and allowed me to write the answers on the forms, but she’d closed off any hint of the vulnerability she’d shown at the edge of our driveway. “Don’t stare at me,” she snapped through lips pinched thin and bloodless. “Sorry. I can’t bear to look at the baby,” I whispered. “Well, the baby doesn’t want you to look at him, either. Look at the TV.” I looked up just in time to see a home video of a guy taking a crotch shot. Who in their right mind thought America’s Funniest Home Videos would be good emergency-room entertainment? My eyes almost traveled back to Mrs. McElroy again, but I stopped short to study my own print on the forms.
